


There is No Wind

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Dark, Decapitation, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Horror, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Past Violence, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Top Dean, Violence, severed limbs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bag appears in the middle of the highway. The contents call for help the police cannot offer. What is found and where the trail leads is sinister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Start

**Author's Note:**

> a small installment for the Chicago verse. needed a break from current projects but no worries--a chapter of Punzel and House each are almost done. <3
> 
> i wanted something dark, surprise surprise. this is actually a request from a coworker. they wanted something involving D/s so i combined it with a horror case fic. XD
> 
> this will be about four chapters long. hold on.

**The Start:**

She drives past it once on a Monday morning, on the way to work.

It is a large white tote bag. It is big, like the ones you can buy at IKEA for ninety-nine cents, and its handles flap in the wind. Something is inside it, weighing it down. It rests on the grass, not quite on the highway, and she assumes it is garbage or an unfortunately lost bundle of clothes from the top of a tourist’s car.

All week she sees it—on her way to and from work. She sees it on days that are sunny and days that are rainy and days that are clotted with the humidity of another Chicago summer. At first she chalks it up to the negligence of highway maintenance crews. Remember how long they took to reconstruct I-290 a few years back? If they can’t rebuild a highway, she doubts their ability to respond to calls to pick up trash off the side of the road. It stays there. It sits. The handles flap like loose skin.

Her girlfriends invite her out for drinks and gossip on a Thursday night. She goes because she is lonely and it’s been years since anyone has bought her a drink and her therapist says she should get out more. One drink of the evening is bought by a handsome man who is a lawyer from Pilsen. Ay, Pilsen, she cringes internally. That would be a far drive. Another drink of the evening is bought by a not so handsome man in Des Plaines. Not too far. But looking at him does not provide excitement. The last drink purchased is from an older man— _Argentino,_ he deliberately points out—with a head of white hair and an intricately knotted scarf. He pats her ass and winks at her over the rojito he’s bought her. Try another time, she laughs and thanks him for the drink. The rest of the night is spent with her friends.

It is there on her drive back home.

But it has moved.

Instead of being on the eastbound side, it sits squarely in the middle of westbound traffic, in the middle of the three lanes. It is one in the morning. Few cars are out this far west. A truck is some five miles behind her. She sees the bag and swerves around it. Odd. Did teenagers get to it and abandon it? Did the wind pick it up?

The highway is darker here than in any other section. The overheard lights blew out a few weeks ago and no one has bothered to replace them. It is five miles to the next exit. She passes the bag at seventy miles an hour and looks into her rear view mirror. That’s not possible.

It is gone.

Or is it?

“I must be drunk,” she says to no one. Just two more exits and she will be home. A pot of tea before bed is a good idea. Chamomile. She can use her electric kettle. Maybe tomorrow she’ll call the lawyer. He was the one who didn’t look at her breasts constantly, which she finds amusing. And he was dressed nicely even if his suit was too tight in the shoulders.

 _Thunk_.

The white bag bashes against her windshield.

A human head rolls out, its eyelids turned up and the mouth gaping open, allowing the swollen tongue to loll and leave a trail of spit and blood across the cracks in the glass.

Screaming and crying and swerving, she loses control of the car.

 

The last thing she sees before darkness is the hand of the body extend from the bag and hit the antenna.

The body is dressed in a too tight suit.


	2. The Middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter up right away, more to come. having fun with the D/s aspect. in the request was no sex at first, with a gradual build up. my first time writing anything specifically D/s, please let me know what you think. 
> 
> oh, this might be a bit confusing but anything you think should be in quotes but isn't symbolizes that bond they have. they don't need to speak it out loud for the other to know. tricky to do in text but hopefully y'all get it. <3 nice to be writing wincest!
> 
> thanks for reading.

**The Middle:**

 

A shop in the city off the red line sells and buys books by the pound. On the front door a handwritten sign states that all books are $5.99 lb. Video games, records, and movies follow different prices but Sam is never interested in learning those.

At checkout, there’s a deli scale. Usually it’s Tony behind the counter, an older Greek gentleman who runs the shop on most days for the owners. Today it’s Abby, a cousin from the owner’s family. They’ve sent her here to learn the meaning of an honest day’s work and to keep her out of rehab again. This is what she’s told Sam in the two hours he has been here today, trying to find something new to read. She doesn’t get his polite attempts at being left alone, nor does she care when he mentions there are other customers looking for help making purchases. When the phone rings and he says she should probably get that, she agrees but keeps on talking to him about the next color she wants to dye her hair. Pink maybe.

Two desperate texts are sent. They are ignored until a third one goes out—Tom Fogerty.

The bell above the door rings thirty seconds later and Sam watches a figure push past aisles. This figure meets him in the poetry section, disgruntled about having to leave his spot at the sports bar two shops down just to deal with this.

No need for words this time, however, which makes it nice. Abby takes one look at the figure and another look back at Sam and she cuts through classics to get back to the register.

When he wants to, Dean can still look intimidating.

Abby does not know that Dean sat through the Chicago Symphony Orchestra’s show two nights prior and _liked_ it. Sam nods his appreciation and goes back to the small but well-stocked poetry shelf. Dean snorts and kicks Sam’s right foot. A little thank you? No, no thank you. Rude. Not rude, busy. Could’ve handled that yourself. Ah, here’s a new one.

Sam pulls out a thin book with white bowtie shapes on the spine. The cover is different for a Penguin book and Sam has never heard of this author. He flips it over and skims the summary and praise from other authors. Atwood is here. As is Rushdie. A dated photo from the seventies or so looks back at him before he opens the book and reads the first poem he turns to. The first line is:

_One day the blood in the pollen will put me to sleep…_

He buys this book two minutes later. It’s worth the $1.53 it comes to on the scale. Abby glares at Dean. She writes her phone number on the back of Sam’s receipt. Dean takes it, his hands quicker than Sam’s, and tears it up onto the counter. Sam shoves him out of the store.

“That wasn’t nice.”

“I’m not nice.”

They take the red line towards 95th.

 

Two days later and Sam hasn’t read through the entire book yet. The poems and author require research. He has never studied South American politics before and during his research he gets distracted. Sometimes his distractions are sumptuous, hearty meals cooked for him and served in second and third portions. Other times his distractions are freckles and calloused fingers and the fleshy swell of a bottom lip. The rain outside makes today muggy. Sam wants to spend the afternoon licking the humidity off of Dean, seeing if his breath causes condensation.

Lips are on his throat, teeth above an artery.

It’s good.

A sharp inhale. He wants this. Give it. Give it hard.

Dean pulls away.

Above Sam, Dean smirks and looks half drunk. Too many beers. Too many kisses. Too much hunger. A gentle hand sweeps through Sam’s hair before tracing the line of his jaw and tilting his head back. Oh. Wide. Wide open. Their mouths bruise together and Sam emits a moan that is imbibed like a tequila shot—fast, desperate, knocked back…fuck.

Sam wants to take it over. He wants to push and press and plunge.

But there was a discussion about this. They are trying something new. No sex. Everything before it and if Sam is _good_ , a decision will be made, a thirst snuffed out.

“Lie down,” is commanded when their mouths separate. The voice here is familiar. These are instructions. These are orders. But instead of being ten years old and holding a sawed off, Sam is forty-six and bracing himself on the solid form of his brother’s shoulders. The bed creaks. Dean’s room; the bed always creaks. They are both fully dressed—jeans despite the weather and shirts because of the weather. Peaked nipples are prominent behind the threadbare charcoal shirt that covers freckled skin. Sam’s mouth waters. His head is supported by a foam pillow. Dean sits his ass directly over Sam’s erection.

Slow.

Slow grind.

Slow grind back and forth.

They are both hard.

Harder. No. Please. No. I can’t. You will.

Dean has bottomed exactly once. He was twenty-six and angry and bitter and full of resentment. But it all gave way to Sam’s grief. In a motel room on the Nevada-Utah border—headed towards Colorado—Dean forced aside his discomfort and they tried it. No one got off. No one felt better. The hotel bed was sticky with lube and nothing else. This is different. Sam’s hands spread wide over Dean’s firm thighs. Dean leans down. Their lips press together but they do not kiss. Sam closes his eyes and listens to the bed springs. He sighs as Dean works his ass in tight circles over Sam’s cock.

With a rough, gravel voice, Dean issues another order. “On your side.”

Pressed together, chest to chest, each of them on their sides, Sam gasps. Thick arms wrap around him—hold him. Cocks and hips pushed together Dean rocks them to a rhythm that extracts a trembling moan from the center of Sam’s chest. A shift is made. Sam is held to Dean’s chest. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of laundry detergent, clean sweat, and aftershave he has long since formed memories to. This is home. This is the center.

Hands wander. Dean gropes his ass firmly enough to leave it delicate.

Kisses start.

A whine. A tussle. A step outside the boundary—just to see what it’s like.

“No,” Dean growls. “ _No_.”

Sam is pressed into the mattress, rolled over on his stomach. His ass is slapped—first in a way that only hurts. Second in a way that hurtsyesmoreplease. A fistful of hair is grabbed, twisted, and pulled with the knowledge of how much force is good and how little is not enough. Dean mounts him. Sam breathes out and wills his muscles to relax. Give in. Play the role.

Chest to back, Dean positions them. He leaves a harsh mark on Sam’s right earlobe.

“Good boy,” is purred and Sam’s hair is yanked. “Very good boy.”

This causes Sam’s cock to swell in his jeans. He cries out when it’s palmed through his jeans.

Can’t.

Can.

“Gonna fuck your mouth.”

“Make you choke.”

“Wet it good. That’s all you’re getting.”

“…”

Yes, sir.

“Good boy. Who is my good boy?”

“Who is it?”

Me, oh god, me.

The alarm clock on Dean’s nightstand starts to move erratically. Things do that when Sam can’t control it. They have learned—no glass on the nightstands. Still, the clock teeters to and fro with increasing intensity.

It only stops when the doorbell rings.

“Pay attention,” Dean hisses and shoves his hips forward. The doorbell rings again. Three rings all in a row. Emergency code.

 

Something is wrong.

Play time is over.


End file.
